


The taste

by shittershutter



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 08:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13830621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: Tommy coughs out a cloud of smoke, wiping at his mouth aggressively. No amount of handwaving can mask the blush burning through his cheeks, and there is no resisting the urge to lean in and kiss the hot skin where it's the reddest, so Gibson just goes with it.





	The taste

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote shameless porn and I'm sorry.
> 
> * Unbetad.

"Tell me," his boy says. He's burned through two cigarettes just to create a smoke screen, it seems, to hide his face. And he'd say outrageous things out loud, no coughing or blushing, just to make Gibson blurt something out in return, primarily in self-defense, to teach him to hold a conversation again. 

This time, it's all on Gibson, though.

"Did it to my girl," he says, barely audible. Then he leans in, spelling the soundless words against the shell of Tommy's ear: "Loved it."

Tommy coughs out a cloud of smoke, wiping at his mouth aggressively. No amount of handwaving can mask the blush burning through his cheeks, and there is no resisting the urge to lean in and kiss the hot skin where it's the reddest, so Gibson just goes with it.

"Don't leave me with the fucking footnotes," Tommy croaks reaching for the beer to wash the irritation off the back of his throat. "Tell me."

Gibson takes the bottle from him, letting it flow through his system. To make the words flow as well. He is the one to bring the subject up, after all, he has to make a good story out of it now.

So he closes his eyes and goes back in time as Tommy's skin burns against his where they touch, anchors him to the present. 

"Would sit between her legs, kiss my way up from her knees slowly. So she'd lift the skirt out of the way herself and spread her legs for me as wide as she wanted."

"You do it to me, you bastard," Tommy snorts. It's quite a breathless snort.

"Like you need any coaxing to spread yours."

It earns his shoulder a quick soft bite but other than that Tommy doesn't get in the way of the tale.

She'd be shy about it, his girl. He's either genuinely doesn't remember her name or doesn't allow himself to. Sometimes her face is a blur, but occasionally he thinks he can see the features coming through if he concentrates hard enough.

She'd be shy, so he'd start with a kiss, just a touch of lips to where she was wet, kissing her like he would her mouth, no tongue at first, just chaste and proper first date kisses.

Then, when she'd relax, and her hands would fall into his hair, he'd taste her with the very tip of his tongue, slide it between the lips.

"What did she taste like?" 

Gibson opens one eye and studies Tommy's face, his open mouth and the tongue sliding against the lower lip back and forth. He wonders briefly if he should go with the metaphor or if his boy is too far gone to appreciate him trying to be creative with his second language.

He leans in and sucks that glistening lower lip into his mouth. 

"Like you. But softer."

"Ah," Tommy says, the "a" is ridiculously drawn out and breathy. 

Gibson goes on about how he'd lick at his girl until she'd run out of breath and her lips get so swollen and wet he'd just have to suck them into his mouth. 

Tommy's knee bumps against his, and he catches the trembling leg, the one he can bend properly, squeezing the thigh lightly. 

He tells him, squeezing rhytmically as he goes, how then he'd push his tongue inside her and fuck her pussy with it like he would with his cock, sharp plunge in and slow drag out to give it a proper taste. And she'd ride his face, push and scratch forgetting all about that proper young lady she was supposed to be at the moment.

"I loved it," he repeats thoughtfully, rubbing his lower lip where the flavor of Tommy's kiss can still be found, burning through the flesh.

The boy grabs his hand, enclosing it with his shaking fingers to get his attention, and when Gibson looks back at him that face is distorted so much that it looks like a mask of desire, shame, and guilt with Tommy's features barely readable underneath.

"Do it," Tommy whimpers. He sounds like he is about to cry, tears shining at the corners of his eyes.

Gibson reaches out to stroke the damp hair, push it off his forehead. Tommy just nuzzles his face into the man's palm meeting it halfway between them. "Please, darling, do it."

"Oh I will," Gibson promises. "I was planning to."

And so he does.

He arranges Tommy's body between the pillows, long and pale, and kisses the remaining air out of him, stroking his belly and chest until he calms down some and stops shuddering.

Then he slides down to lick off the moisture Tommy's cock has smeared across the lower stomach. It's a fruitless pursuit -- his boy keeps leaking the more he tries to clean it up, but that's good. More for him.

He cleans the head of his cock, too. Gets kicked in the ribs with Tommy's good knee as he does and has to return to the task for a few times to catch the new strings of liquid with the tip of his tongue.

As he pokes around the slit to make sure he is done here Tommy lets out a long whine and reaches out for him blindly -- for his hair, shoulders, anything. Gibson gives him a hand to hold onto and shivers a little as the scared fingers enclose his smoother ones.

He gives them a reassuring squeeze and slides lower sucking the hardened balls into his mouth, one after another.He can tell Tommy is about to come by how heavy they are. There is not much time left.

So Gibson kisses down the taint, and Tommy's knees fall apart wider, the one that can at least. The older man bends the other one slightly to get it out of the way a bit, fingers caressing the edge of the scar along the calf carefully, lovingly.

Then he digs his jaw in and kisses that sweet little hole.

Tommy yelps like he's been punched, his hand flying up from the sheets instinctively to catch that sharp sound and swallow it down.

"Be quiet, my love," Gibson tells him in French, just like he would say to his girl when he was another man, in another place and time.

Tommy nods without opening his eyes, hand clasped firmly across his mouth.

Gibson nods back and gets his mouth to work.

He covers the puckered skin with kisses, them getting wetter and wetter each time until Tommy is a bit used to the touch and the older man is fairly certain he won't come all over himself right away.

Then he licks a few long stripes from the hole to the balls and back, applying a bit of pressure at the end of his way down, not quite getting inside yet, just testing the resistance.

He speaks French in bed, feels more intimate, more natural. So the boundaries blend even more: they taste the same it feels like, those only two people he ever loved. And sometimes when he tries to remember her face she has Tommy's shiny black hair, Tommy's green eyes, catlike in shape, with the spikes of golden brown in them.

And it's either he has a type, or his two lives are finally merging into one, as they should.

He kisses up Tommy's trembling inner thighs and tells him how pretty he looks, over and over, until he's a babbling mess, unable to string a sentence together, drunk off the taste of him, the mixture of salt, musk, and the feverish sweat.

Tommy doesn't quite talk back, but he makes muffled sounds, and he caresses Gibson's palm with his three good fingers and a stump, his movement surprisingly fluid despite the state he's in.

Gibson kisses him once more, right above the hole, then spreads it with his two fingers and pushes the tongue in between. It's tighter than his girl was but just as hot and the process, the sentiment he's trying to communicate is the same. 

His tongue is doing what his cock would, sliding along the hot walls, as they tremble and tighten around him. Saliva is pouring down his jaw into the sheets and Tommy is probably getting loud again, judging by the vibration he can feel in his ribs where his hand, still in Tommy's, is pressed against them. 

He can't hear it. All that penetrates his brain is the wet deafening sound of his mouth working and the pulsating thought, painful against the skull: "iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou" in all the languages he knows at once.

Tommy comes long before he needs to take a break and give his tongue a rest. His one hand is still holding Gibson's; the other is clawing the sheet. The body above him just goes completely still and spills, his arse tightening around Gibson as the only hint.

Gibson licks the come off him, too, all of it. His face is not getting any messier today, he figures. Then he finally meets Tommy face to face.

His boy looks like a doll, glassy-eyed and flushed, lips bitten bloody red. Tears are drying on his skin, long tracks of them running down his cheeks and neck and he is really trying to focus on Gibson's face, getting his hand into the man's curls at an awkward angle to keep him in place. 

He's the most beautiful thing the man's ever seen.

Tommy finally gets a good enough grasp on his own limbs to push himself up and kiss the man's swollen mouth despite the weak protests. It's dirty, with the saliva and tongue everywhere, and it's who they are. So Gibson lies down on the pillow and lets it happen until Tommy is satisfied.

"Thank you," his boy whispers. It's what he can read on his lips with no sound coming out. One rogue tear falls from his cheek onto Gibson's, and he wipes it with his thumb fast enough for the older man to doubt it was ever even there. 

"Thank you," he echoes. Because it is mutual.

Then he lies back down and jerks his own cock with rapid cruel strokes. Tommy is a boneless frame next to him, but he still makes an effort to press his mouth under the older man's ear and repeat that thought out loud, that one that Gibson had earlier, with different voice but the same desperation: "iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou".

Gibson comes staining his boy's belly white, new shiny streaks on the pale skin in the afternoon light. He's not licking these off, though.

It takes him a few deep breaths, as deep as his ribs would allow, to clear his head enough to roll over and reach under the bed for the towel. 

When he turns back, Tommy's still staring at the ceiling, tracing patterns in a mess Gibson's made on his stomach, twirls and circles and lines. 

It makes the older man snort shaking his head, and he fights Tommy off to clean him up, the body and the hand. Then he reaches down between the boy's legs and...

"Leave it," Tommy says evenly. 

Gibson just raises an eyebrow at him and gets a calm glance back, like it's obvious. 

"Shameless bastard," Gibson mumbles but decides not to get into another conversation he'll get a new erection over straight away. They both need time to rest. 

"That I am," Tommy agrees with a snort, and as Gibson lowers his heavy head to his chest, he doesn't add anything more.


End file.
